


our level heads in our tornado chests

by splatticus



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Errands as Metaphor, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:23:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splatticus/pseuds/splatticus
Summary: Days after the Stanley Cup Final, David Pastrnak prepares a meal for two.





	our level heads in our tornado chests

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt for andersens:**
> 
> Fic where they were dating, then broke up, and now after some time apart Willy is pining and desperately wants to get back together. 
> 
> (Inspired by the fact Willy is wearing number 88 for Team Sweden and has also recently added three angsty as fuck songs to his “88” playlist on spotify after not updating it in FOREVER.) 
> 
> (I do request a happy ending but feel free to make it angsty.)
> 
> -
> 
> This is hella late but I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Fic title from the poem ["Prism" by Andrea Gibson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6-HpnlcafY).

David wakes up and sees William's sleeping face beside him, his hair and cheekbone eclipsing the weak light that's filtering through his bedroom window. Tentatively, he brushes away blond locks that have fallen on William's closed eyes--one of them twitches when David's finger brush against his lashes, but he sleeps on.

The color of the light doesn't give him an idea of what time it is. A quick turn towards the bedside table reveals that his phone is not there. David gets out of bed and bends down with a twinge of pain to pick up the clothes they've strewn on the floor. He finds his jeans under William's rain-logged peacoat. They took on some dampness since last night, but at least the phone in the back pocket has not been soaked. A little after six in the morning, the display shows. 

After a quick trip to the bathroom to brush his teeth and replace the bandage around his left hand, he leaves the bedroom and makes his way towards the kitchen, sidestepping a couple of his travel bags. They're stuffed full of clothes that his aunts and cousins have requested as gifts, sneakers in a variety of styles and sizes. 

David opens a cupboard, only to remember that they're emptied already. His mom helped him be thorough, cleaning out his North End apartment of all perishables in preparation for the three months that he will leave it empty. He finds one bulk pack of Kolonadas, a brand of wafers from home, hanging out in one of the shelves. His mom must have left it there before she flew back, certain that he would get to it eventually. No one's immune to the temptation of scarfing them down--even William had been obsessed with them since they were teenagers, back in their Södertälje days. William had always been enthusiastic about trying out the different things that David received in the mail, would demolish David's stash of snacks without thinking about it. But then for penance he would kiss David breathless before dragging David home to eat Michael Nylander's famous home cooking. It was a good compromise.

When they were cleaning this kitchen a few days ago, David's mom brought up William's name in the middle of an amusing story. She must have seen something on his face, because she pressed her lips together and focused on wiping the kitchen island until it gleamed.

The contents of his refrigerator aren’t promising--leftover fried rice, beer bottles, a half-full container of juice. That decides it for David; he has to leave the house and get something. He sneaks back into the bedroom to get dressed, puts on a clean pair of jeans and a thin shirt. It's slower going than his usual routine, due to his fading bruises from the playoff run and his attempt not to disturb William. He emerges from his apartment building and looks up wryly at the gloom-filled sky. It only just stopped raining, the sidewalk covered in puddles and the air condensing into raindrops on his upper lip. Bostonites have been crabby about the weather for weeks, impatient for the bright sun of the summer, so they can be the brash city of sundresses and Red Sox snapbacks once again. But the rain and the cold still linger, unwilling to let go.

David was already on his way to Stockholm this time last year. Seven playoff games against the Leafs had gained their own explosive momentum--started off vicious and remained charged throughout, with David emerging from it with the best single game performance of his career. What he did not expect was how it would feel like a blow to his ribs, having to look at William's devastated face on the other side of the handshake line. But he thought they managed to weather through it just fine. 

When the season was done, William took him back into his Stockholm apartment, back into his bed, and they talked about it in the dark with hushed voices, even as they spent their days playing tennis and lounging around with the sun in their eyes. They've had years to come to terms with this, they told each other. What the game would be demanding from both of them.

At the corner store, David picks out eggs, butter, ground coffee, milk. Then he goes to the deli next door and gets flirted with by the middled-aged shop owner who recognizes him. She’s appalled when David says he is only buying a couple ounces of bacon.

"I'm just a lonely bachelor," he tells her with a smile.

"Well, you ain't winning no one over with six deli slices in your fridge! Let me fix you up."

By the time he leaves he has also purchased an entire country loaf, iberico ham and mortadella and prosciutto. Two different wedges of cheese. It's entirely too much and he looks down at his arms--loaded with so much food--with a flush of embarrassment. It's fine. Gryz, Kruger and Coyler are still in the city, so he can just hand off the uneaten stuff to their monstrous appetites. It’s not going to waste.

David starts walking back home.

That first playoff round was one thing. However, the unease that came with William's contract negotiations piled on top until it was a boulder skidding down a cliff, enormous and unmanageable. David had left Stockholm for the Bruins' training camp at the end of summer, William seeing him off at the airport with a fond goodbye kiss. But as the days of September ticked by, as dev camp scrums gave way to pre-season games and then to actual games, William started to fade away. 

My agent says it's better not to talk too much to people around the league, William said tightly over the phone, there might be rumors of tampering. David wanted to protest, say he was not the rest of the league. But even in Massachusetts, far away from the fallout, it still turned his stomach to see how ugly everything was turning out. There was no need to pile on to William's list of worries.

William is still asleep when David gets back, looking like he hasn't moved a muscle. Over the years, David had noticed that he sleeps unnervingly still, often staying in the same position all night long. He'd wake up with a stiff neck or sore shoulders, pins and needles through his pinched fingers. So David made a habit of jostling him in the middle of the night. Not enough to wake him up, but to trick him into moving. Sometimes he would turn all the way into David's arms, continue to snore softly as David rubbed his shoulders and elbow joints, to warm him up and encourage circulation. 

David steps away from the bedroom door and heads towards the kitchen, putting most of what he bought inside the refrigerator. They cover up the couple of beers in the back, left over from when Krejci came over, the night after their loss in the Stanley Cup Final. He'd shown up with a stormcloud expression and an eight-pack of dark lager in each hand, which he presented to David with a flourish. They both sat on the balcony--just a couple of sad Czechs, alone together and pouring beer into the gaping chasm of their sorrows. 

Do one thing for me, Krech slurred later that night. His face was serious even as he continued to list closer and closer into David's space, patting his cheek before saying: Whatever you're feeling now, just sit with it. And be kind to yourself.

The memory makes him smile as he preps the coffeemaker and turns it on. Before long, the comforting smell of coffee starts to fill the kitchen.

He had breathed a sigh of relief when the news broke that William was flying back to North America back in December. His second game of the season took him to Boston, and David finally had the chance to wrap his arms around William again. He proceeded to pass out against David's shoulder in the middle of a movie. David gave him a few affectionate nudges so he wouldn't be late for his curfew, and David thought then that the good life would be just this, kissing his prince awake midnight after midnight. So he saw Willy off to regain his footing in Toronto, expecting him back by Christmas break. Instead what he got back was a William with shadows underneath his eyes, his face pinched behind the curtain of hair dampened by clumps of melting snow. 

That was six months ago.

Slicing the bread turns out to be a slightly awkward exercise with his bad hand, but David gets several slices that he pops into the toaster oven. He has to hunt down which cabinet his mother stored his plates and glassware in. If left to his own devices, he would've just let the plates remain on the drying rack for all of three months, but she believes in putting things away. Another quick search around his kitchen and David unearths a frying pan, the small one he uses for eggs. He turns on the electric stove to a low heat and waits, one hand holding a knife with a slice of butter poised above it.

"Nice win in Detroit," David had greeted William when he finally arrived in Boston for Christmas. He caught the highlights of the Leafs game as he waited. "Fun OT."

William responded with a grunt before he shrugged his overnight bag off his shoulders, letting it fall behind him with a thud. Eager to touch again, David shuffled closer until he was flush against William, rained kisses on his temple and inhaled the woodsy citrus of his cologne. Kissed cold, shivering lips to warm them up while David eased him out of his overcoat and unwound his scarf. For a moment William had felt like he was going to fold over in a heap of fatigue, but he stood still and opened his mouth to David's tongue, the soft scratch of his beard a thrill against David' face.

He continued to say little as they prepared dinner and brought their plates in front of the television. ESPN was running short updates around the different sports leagues. It was the NBA for the next hour, snippets of pre- and post-game press conferences taken just before the holiday break. William kept looking up at the screen but his eyes were unfocused, like he was a thousand miles away and a border over.

"Maybe you wear something like that next scrum," David joked as the broadcast showed Serge Ibaka walking into Staples Center, wearing a daring motorcycle jacket in mustard yellow and a bucket hat in dark orange. "Make Twitter go wild."

William looked down at his plate. "That's not happening."

"I think it's a cute look for you," he argued, continuing when William didn't respond. "But maybe it's more my style, huh? I show up like that next time we have to play in Toronto, so the media asks me about it instead of contracts."

Something unreadable played across William's face before he raked fingers through his hair. "Yeah, well, I wish you hadn't said those things anyway." 

David looked back at him, baffled. All he'd done was answer questions about his own contract negotiations, emphasize how much he believed in William and his talent. "Why? I was just a hockey player for the other team and they wanted me to give quotes. They asked the same questions to Marchy and Bergy--"

"But they're not what you are to me, are they?" 

"So what if they know that we're close? It's not news."

"That's not what I meant," William said, his voice rising. "I'm just--it's just another thing to add to the circus. They're still asking me to comment about it until now." With a huff, he got up and started walking to the kitchen, plate in hand. 

David tried to tamp down the spike of temper that he felt as he watched his retreating back. The media in Toronto had always been notorious for stretching out small things into full-blown controversies--David didn't understand what it had to do with him, what it had to do with the short respite that they were supposed to be enjoying in the next few days. When he followed William into the kitchen, he was dumping leftovers into the garbage disposal, the spoon making a sharp sound against the plate.

"I didn't tell any lies," David started, measuring out the words. "I didn't invent rumors."

"I know that! But it doesn't matter to them. It's bad enough that they think I'm greedy and disloyal and I'm not putting in the work. When they're distracting me with mentions of you--"

"Oh yes, the biggest sin in the Bible, getting distracted."

William spun around to face him, his face splotchy with annoyance. "You're missing my point on purpose."

The first fried egg David tries to make fails. His injured hand fumbles at breaking the shell, and the eggs hit the pan with a splat, puncturing the yolk. He takes too long just looking at it, and the runny yellow part starts to cook and firm up, an irregular smear against the increasingly opaque egg whites. It's not pretty but he lets it cook out, before sliding it out on a plate. Giving a rueful look at his bandaged hand, he sighs--no use fighting against it. 

He turns off the stove and finds a large bowl, starts cracking the rest of the eggs into it. Then, after he eats the lone, imperfect egg, he proceeds to beat the uncooked ones with his good hand, before pouring a batch into the newly buttered pan.

"I don't know the point," David said after taking a deep breath, leaning against the kitchen doorway. "All I know is that it's Christmas. Can't we leave that outside and be together?"

There were so many things he never brought to William. He had never told him how lonely he felt when he first came to America and people pretended he didn't understand English. He never told William that he was tired of hearing about William's great teammates and great sponsorships and great condo in Toronto that David had never visited, because William was always afraid someone was going to take a photo of them together and post it on Instagram. In turn, David had always jealously guarded their time together, this sacred thing.

"Things are different here. You walk out of this apartment and Bruins fans tell you how much they love you." William gripped the countertop behind him, his knuckles white. "They already think you're better, and now you're the better one who didn't ask for too much in your contract."

Looking up at the ceiling, David laughed in helplessness. "I don't have control of that. I can't use a time machine and ask for more money so you can feel better. When they find a new scandal they'll leave you alone, so it doesn't matter. Maybe we get lucky, another athlete gets in a fight on Christmas Day and it's big news--"

"I can't do this anymore." 

William said it so quietly he almost missed it, except it was hard to miss the way he walked past David out of the kitchen with his head bowed. It hit him, the unreality of following William as he stalked back into the living room, bending over to grab his bag. He shook it open so he could stuff in his beanie, his gloves, and the thermal socks he had taken off earlier.

"Where are you going?" David said, incredulity thick in his voice.

"I don't want to be around you right now. Not when you're like this."

Five years. William had been more constant to him than the apartments, the cities, the countries he'd lived in. Not once had David seen William try to get away from him during a fight. They'd always hover around each other's orbit, already aching to make up by the end of an argument. Even last season, in the playoffs, they never raised their voices. 

"William--"

Words were tripping over themselves in David's head, three languages' worth of questions and attempts at persuasion, pet names and words of denial. It slowed him down and William was already moving. He kept his head bowed as he moved past David again, stopping at the coat hook by the front door. Struggled into his jacket, then his coat. His next words were breathy, muffled as the scarf covered almost his entire face. "Let's talk again when our teams play each other."

"All this because of your contract?"

Only the clipped sound of his front door closing answered him.

The coffeemaker finishes brewing as David is getting the bacon from the fridge. He puts it on the plate when it’s done frying, before taking out the other deli meats from their packaging, arranging them into mounds.

David had been tempted to be the one to break down first, to cajole and beg for William to come back. But he had some pride, despite everything, and he was not the one who walked away. Every day he would go to practice, attend video sessions, prep for game nights, wondering what line it was that became uncrossable for William, uncrossable for them. Going home started to fill him with dread. There were few things that could be connected to William in his Boston apartment, in case teammates came over and started asking questions. But there were spaces here that William was meant to fill. The cubbyhole for his boots, the spot in the closet for his change of clothes, the half of the refrigerator shelf for the seltzer that William liked to buy.

When the Bruins arrived in Toronto in January, David received no text messages from him, nothing in his voicemail. They barely saw each other on the ice, and the team left on the same night for the next leg of their road trip.

The quiet echoed.

Dinner tonight with the family, Chara told him one day. No excuses. That started the dinners that filled up his evenings most off days, so he had something to do now that wasn't talking to William.

When the news of his thumb injury was announced in February, he received a text: _I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do, please let me know._ He didn't answer--David used to think that it was gonna be the NHL, Bruins hockey, that would make him a hard person, but it turned out that William was the one to do that for him.

It became even more certain that the Leafs and Bruins were facing each other in the playoffs, and any lingering hope for them was snuffed out. In some heartbreaking ways, it was easier. As far as the crest on the front of his chest was concerned, William was just one among the several hockey players that he had to defeat on his way to the Stanley Cup. They beat the Leafs again, and it was like an apparition--David and not David--was playing those games. Then they made their way through the Eastern conference. He struggled with his production, his re-aggravated injury, his constant fear that the coaches were going to pull him out of the lineup at any time. 

He and William had a life together in Sweden and the Czech Republic that they would have to dismantle, pieces they'd have to partition and claim, but those hard questions were a whole continent away. David drowned out the world outside Boston. 

Until last night, when he’d heard the voice of a ghost over the intercom.

"Pasta?" 

He turns and sees William hovering tentatively just outside his bedroom door. His blond hair, shorter than the last time they saw each other, is fighting against his attempts to brush it back. One of David's blankets is wrapped around his waist like a toga, reminiscent of his most recent photos from vacation. Even when they were in the thick of it, battling the Blues, David lost minutes just staring at those images on social media, the seconds-long clips of him bathed by the Greek sun--they didn't do him justice at all.

"Good morning," David says.

There's an uncertain set in William's jaw as his gaze slides from food that's already laid out on the kitchen island to the mugs of coffee that David's preparing.

"Yeah, good morning. Um." He shifts, turning towards the living room and taking in empty beer bottles lying on the coffee table, the gentle chaos of a house that has almost been packed away for the season. "Do you have somewhere to be? I didn't mean to mess up your--" 

"I leave for Havířov in maybe three days? If surgeon says it's okay. Then vacation for summer."

William nods. "Makes sense. I was half-expecting the apartment to be empty already, actually." He doesn't mention that summer used to mean him as far as David was concerned, lazing around in the sun and getting drunk on each others' skin.

"So if I wasn't here, what do you do, go back to the airport? Get a new flight?"

"Um. I would've come up with something." William's gaze lands on the backpack that he brought with him, which David has taken off the floor and placed on the sofa. From its size, David figures he didn't even bring a change of clothes. It's really like William, to act out of impulse. He probably didn't even look up the weather. "I just thought--" He starts shivering, the hand clutching the sheets tightening at his hip.

David says, pointing somewhere behind William, "I still have clothes in the drawer, if you want to shower. Yours are wet from last night." 

"Right. Of course. Thank you," he murmurs, giving David a rueful smile before stepping back into the bedroom. David goes back to making coffee.

It had been pouring all night long. David was nursing a bottle of Krech's leftover beer when he heard the intercom beep. He was not expecting anyone--almost all of the family guys on the team left within days of the locker room cleanout, and those who stayed behind wouldn't have braved this weather anyway.

He made a not-quite straight line towards the intercom unit and turned on the audio feed with a soft, "Yeah?"

"Pasta, it's me." Despite the static, the almost deafening sound of rainwater hitting pavement, there was no mistake. "Please don't turn me away." 

He buzzed William in automatically. He rested his forehead against the door, listened to his ragged breath, waited for the hundred years it took for William to arrive. David shouldn't have felt yearning like a relief in his throat, when the hurt and the bitterness should've been smothering it.

_Please don't turn me away._ Asked in that voice, there was nothing he would refuse.

When William finally knocked on his door, David stepped back to let him inside, watched as his shoes and coat tracked in dirty rainwater. Dark jeans splashed to the knees. 

"William."

"Yeah, I--I forgot to call before coming here, I should've--"

David reached up to touch his face, and it hurt to feel. William's fingers covered his own. The air was humid, condensing on his skin and for a moment those were the only things that filled his mind. The wet air and William rubbing his fingers slowly over David's knuckles, the heavy gauze that covered the lower half of his left hand. Then David was crushing their lips together.

He would ache again--that was for certain. But even when he was playing the most important games of his career, he'd emerge from the arena and feel like he was sleepwalking through life. Only this, William's touch, had shaken him awake, unmoored and terrified.

William surged forward then, hands on David's shoulders as he continued to taste David's tongue like he was searching for something. David took a step back, allowed himself to be moved towards the wall. He couldn't help the groan of pain when his back hit exposed brick. Slowly, William leaned away from the kiss, a flicker of understanding in his expression.

"Do you hurt here?" William asked as his fingers slid over his shirt, wandering across David's stomach, around his ribs. The touches tender but knowing. "What kind?" 

David knew what he was asking about--the beating a player's body had taken as it tried to win it all. "Bruising on hips. A little bit my shoulder."

William nodded, as if to himself. A callused hand landed on David's elbow as William guided him through the hallway, past the couch, and into the bedroom. William kept watching him with half-closed eyes, nuzzling kisses on David's chin, the corner of his mouth, his nose. He made David sit on the foot of the bed as he helped David out of his clothes, his touch whisper soft and deliberate.

"Lie back?"

David obeyed. His eyes never left William as he stepped back to unbutton his drenched coat and let it fall to the floor. Then his hoodie, the shirt underneath, and the jeans plastered to his thighs. David continued to stare until he was completely naked and climbing into bed on his hands and knees, hovering over David's body. He was trembling as well. 

"Oh, that doesn't look fun," he heard William say. David followed his eyes to where the side of David's torso had a smattering of bruising across the curve of hips, some on his ribs. He shook his head.

"Those are old now. I think Columbus."

William hummed like there was something else he wanted to say. But instead his fingers brushed across David's chest as he sucked on the place where David's neck met his shoulders, tongue flicking out to draw David's chain necklace into his mouth. Electric blue eyes looked up at him as William's lips followed the path that his hands were taking, tracing his sternum before lingering on a sensitive nipple.

"Does this feel good?"

David hitched his hips up, desperate for more, and his hands clamp around William's thighs to urge him closer.

They relearned each other. William's touch roamed eagerly, hands forgetting to be tentative as they moved lower. David groaned from the relief. William kept checking in with him, a litany of questions that David always answered with a yes. Yes to William tracing the inside of his thigh, to a hand around the base of his cock, to William running his thumb against the underside and stroking down to reveal the head. To William's other hand reaching behind his balls, fingertips against his perineum.

"Can I--"

David nodded his head at everything.

William reached towards the bedside table to open the drawer where they kept the lube. He dropped it near David's shoulders, and it broke David's heart with how familiar this image was, like six months were nothing at all. William still chose the same knee to lift up in order to slide a pillow under David's hips, still made a beeline for the bathroom to quickly wash his hands before scrambling back to bed. Memories of all the previous times they'd done this collapsed into each other like a dying star. 

This, David thought as William beamed at him, is the way it ought to be, having someone to whom he could pour all this feeling, a broad shoulder that could bear the weight. William had always known how to do this, how to blanket him with unconditional understanding, even through moments of unnameable anger or grief. 

Did William have someone to do this for him, when Toronto was closing in on all sides? David asked in a broken voice, "Is this what you wanted?" 

William nodded eagerly, already positioning himself between David's legs.

"Of course. Nothing beats a comfortable bed for bruises, eh? Don't worry about it, I'll take care of everything."

William took his time stretching David, sucked kisses all over David's thighs as he did so. David made a strangled noise when he felt a second slick finger, his hips moving up to meet the intrusion. Later, when William had rendered David wordless and clutching weakly at the bedsheets, he took out a condom and put it on himself, then slicked his cock with more lube. Then he parted David's legs wider, pressing apologetic kisses to his knee as David gasped in pain from his bruised muscles moving.

David felt it at the back of his throat as the blunt head of William’s cock pushed against his entrance, hips rolling deliberately as he slid in. He remembered again what deep meant, how it felt to be full. William's arm was supporting the small of his back now, easing the feeling as he pushed and pushed and pushed. The effort had him taking in long, labored out breaths. David opened his eyes to find his face drawn in concentration.

"Come here, please," David whispered.

The angle changed as William obeyed him, kissing David fiercely once again. There was a hand stroking his cock, slick from a mixture of lube and precome, urging him closer to orgasm. The sure, confident movements were undeniable--David let himself be taken over. He came with William's neck against his mouth and he bit into the skin, William's surprised cry vibrating against him. 

A few thrusts later and William followed, gasping his name.

"We're still good at it," William murmured after, drowsy against David's shoulder. He fell asleep in the next second, but David spent most of the night awake despite his exhaustion, watching the light from the outside as it gleamed ceaselessly on. Who knew how long this apparition would last.

David is finally sitting down as William emerges with newly wet hair, wearing a Bruins shirt over gray track pants. He tentatively approaches the kitchen island with his arms crossed--he sits on the stool, watching David as he butters a slice of toasted bread. William's eyes dart towards the package of wafers that he has placed on the granite countertop, even though he says nothing.

"Thank you," William says when David puts down a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. His hand fiddles with his coffee mug before he takes a nice, long sip. Then he glances at David's face again, his mouth open as if to say something when he startles. "Oh."

Hurriedly, he stands up. David watches as he moves towards the sofa, where he grabs his backpack and starts rummaging through it. He comes back to the kitchen holding something in his hand, a long rectangular box covered in what looks like bright red paper. He slides it towards David. The gift wrap is damp in some parts.

"For your birthday," William says, surprising David.

It's been more than a couple of weeks since he turned twenty-three, an entire lifetime ago. This realization trips up something else, an adjacent memory about--

"Sorry," David says. "I forgot about your birthday also. I have no gift." 

William interrupts him with a grimace, "Oh, please stop. You don't have to worry about that."

"Doesn't matter, I'll prepare something. Wait." He makes a show out it, standing up and taking out two pieces of sliced bread from the oven toaster. He scoops a thin layer of scrambled eggs on top of them, then tops the eggs with pieces of ham and cheese arranged carefully like a fan. A few minutes of concentration later, he says, "There! Fancy meal. Happy birthday."

William's lips twitch. "That's just eggs on toast."

"It's breakfast chlebíčky! Hotel chefs make this. You just never seen before."

William throws back his head and brays with his familiar, ridiculous laugh.

"It's special," David insists.

"I know, everything you do is special." Somewhere in that sentence, William's expression starts to crumple; he tries to play it off with a smile.

"William--"

Shaking his head vigorously, William bows his head and starts to fiddle with the open-faced sandwiches in front of him. He bites his lower lip, trying to control the wobble of his chin. A short eternity later, he rasps, "I gave up one of the best things that I had and it never stopped them from hating me. So what was the point?"

There are a lot of things David wants to say--God, so many words that the space of this apartment can barely contain them, crowding both of them in.

"I thought I would wait until things got better for me, before I called again. So I wouldn't feel like such a failure. But then it didn't." The things analysts said about William, the constant drumbeat of trade rumors. They reverberated throughout the league. 

"You didn't have someone in your corner."

William scrunches his nose and gives him a shrug, his eyes flitting everywhere but at David's face. "The guys have been great. And the family dropped by a lot because they knew that--" He blushes then and takes a sip of his coffee. "In the end I kept away because I was afraid. You looked like you were succeeding just fine. What if you were happy without me?"

He hesitates for a minute, but he can’t let William sit there all on his own. Flayed open. 

David says, "Marchy kept trying to take me to clubs so I would cheer up. Didn't work. It was like all the leaves in the world fell from the trees."

His heart still aches from the experience, but it matters to hear that William was still carrying him through it all. The way that David carried William. He thinks about being young and landing in a new country, about finding out at seventeen that it's possible to find someone who could seamlessly fit into the odd spaces inside him. Of walking the same path together.

"I thought loving you was enough. That was a mistake." William's eyes snap up to meet his, surprised and devastated. "I should try and understand you too."

William exhales. "Oh."

"Sometimes I feel like we're so close to each other that you feel the way I feel. But we're different. We don't see each other a lot. It can get us out of sync. We have ask about each other, for it to work, so we don't end up being so far away."

After a pause, Pasta says, "If you still want to work on it with me."

The question shimmers between them, and for a while they are both quiet. The only thing that David hears is the rattle of the metal fork against the plate as William tries to slice his breakfast chlebíčky in half with shaking hands.

-

David has flung open the balcony doors to air out the living room and let in some of the light. The breeze is still this side of too nippy, but William is a furnace underneath him, the antidote to this long, drawn-out cold spell.

"You're gonna wear so many Bruins clothes for three days." David says against William's chest, mouthing at the soft cotton material. He lets up a bit when he hears William snort, and he braces a hand next to William's head to get a better look at his face. "I don't have any other clothes anymore. Just my jerseys. Sorry you have to find out like this."

William's cheeks are still flushed from the long moments of them just kissing. With mischief dancing in his eyes, he turns his head and reaches with his mouth to touch the inside of David's arm, his eyelashes tickling the sensitive skin. His slightly chapped lips trace the dark lines of David's tattoo, and as he darts out his tongue to taste there, William murmurs, "I mean, 88's not a bad number to wear. If I have to choose one."

"So choose it." He feels William's laughter against his arm, and David lowers his head so they can share their next breath.

*

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> \- Please have [this photo](https://mobile.twitter.com/onlyoneloislane/status/1059972164613496835) in your head for the final scene there. And in case some people didn't know, Willy is going to reclaim his number for the next NHL season.
> 
> \- Thank you so much to Brooks, Helen and my fellow Kit for the invaluable support and beta reading. This fic was A Struggle at times, so I'm glad I had you all preventing me from throwing up my hands and giving up.
> 
> \- Seriously though, listen to Willy's Spotify playlists.
> 
> \- Catch me on Twitter @ disastrnak.


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